Gone with the Dawn
by magnessina
Summary: When Christine visits Erik one night and finds him in a foul mood, she must find a way to make him feel better. And showing him exactly how she sees him may be just what he needs. C/E's fluff. [Moonlight Serenade verse, but can be read separately.]


**Well, would you look at that? Hello, it's me again!**

**I'm presenting you tonight with a one-shot, set in my ****_Moonlight Serenade _****verse (hence, the title — kudos to everyone who will get it,) which ****takes place after chapter 74. I guess it could be read as a separate entity, being familiar with ****_Moonlight Serenade _****doesn't hurt, though. To those of you who are new here: Erik and Christine are happily in love, but still playfully tease each other. Mercilessly. (My sense of humour is weird, okay?)  
**

**Who knows, maybe this little one-shot will encourage you to give the whole story a shot?**

**As always, big thanks to all of you, reviewing, supporting, being lovely and rocking my world. This is entirely for you guys.**

**Off we go, then!**

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_I always knew I didn't deserve her. I just didn't like being reminded about it._

* * *

**_{Christine}_**

"Erik, I'm home!" I announce in a sing-sang voice as I enter the house underneath the Opera. I am grinning like a madwoman, I am quite aware of that – I cannot seem to stop. Do not feel the need to, really, nor have I been able to, actually, ever since we finally confessed our love to one another.

The whole thing still seems unreal. Being in love. Having someone who does not seem to care about anyone else but you.

Erik is even worse in this matter.

"You mean, you are in my home, my dear." He lifts his eyebrow at me, as he enters the hallway and comes to help me with my cloak. While the weather outside is truly darling now, I always get chilly on my way to Erik's house; my man over here has proudly announced one day that I knew the corridors as good as he did so he does not bother coming up for me anymore.

I am still not sure whether I should feel flattered or offended.

"Stop making a fuss over a technicality. I basically live here."

"Do forgive me, Christine. I do admit I wanted to tease you a little. I have been edgy all day today; was dying to terrorise Andre and Firmin a bit, but then decided to wait for you."

"And terrorise me instead?"

"You are much more fun to play with, anyway."

"Thank you?" He chuckles, and hugs me tight.

"See? I feel better already."

"You could also kiss me, you know. That would make us both feel better."

He would have, ages ago probably, had he greeted me without his mask on. I frown deeply, looking up at him. Something must have happened.

"Why are you wearing the mask, Erik? I thought we had agreed..."

My fears are conformed when he does not interrupt me, providing me with a plausible explanation that would hush my nagging at him.

"Will you tell me?" I inquire gently.

"I was not wearing it in the morning, but then, I accidentally saw my reflection in the mirror you had left uncovered in the bathroom. I could not help myself, Christine. I had to put my mask on."

"Oh, honey," I shake my head at him. "Come to the living room with me."

I still vividly remember that night when I found him in his bedroom, sobbing his eyes out, with the mirror completely smashed. He cried because he had thought that his scars had been gone – I had been so kind to him, he said to me, that he had hoped the monster had disappeared, too.

Even though I have told him time and again that his face does not frighten me, nor do I think it disgusting, he always seemed to have had a hard time accepting it.

And yet, I was certain our time together has changed it. Naively, I thought that now that Erik knew I loved him, all of him, he would come to terms with his deformity.

He would always say that I was the only person that mattered in his life – if his disfigurement didn't bother me, I thought it would not bother him anymore either. I seem to have been horribly wrong.

I sit down on the sofa, smiling softly as I notice two glasses and a bottle of wine ready for us on the table nearby. He was waiting for me. He would also never admit to that, but I think he was waiting for my reassurance as well. Erik has still some problems with opening up, something for which I could never blame him, but I have learnt to notice when he needs me.

He always does; he always notices when I need him.

"Would you like to take off your mask now?" I ask him. Erik is standing in the corner of the living room, awkwardly trying to decide what to do with himself – whether he should join me on the sofa, take a seat in his armchair, or just flee to his bedroom.

"No, I'm good," he says, shaking his head stubbornly.

"Very well. Come sit here, then." I pat the seat next to me, and he gladly accepts it. When he's comfortably perched on the sofa, I look at him expectedly. He _knows_ our routine for when one of us is having a bad day, and smiling a little, slowly puts his head upon the pillow I have placed on my lap. I then precede to stroke his hair, even though I doubt he can feel it through the wig he is wearing. I would rather he took everything off, but it may take some time tonight.

"Do you know that I love you?" I break the silence after a while. It feels like a good start.

"I do, yes," he answers. "I pinch myself every time you touch me, to remind myself that you are, indeed, real."

"I am afraid to ask what you do to yourself every time I kiss you, then."

_Which is far too often for a lady. _

"I bite my tongue," Erik jokes.

"God forbid!" I gasp. "I need it!"

I roll my eyes at myself, while Erik bursts out laughing. "I mean, _you_ need it."

"That sounded so naughty, Christine. I have thoroughly corrupted you, have I not?"

"I think it has always been in me. You just triggered the wantonness to show itself to the world."

"So what you are saying is that you feel strongly about my tongue?"

"Do shut up."

"Whatever my diva commands."

"As I was saying, I love you, and you are quite _aware_ of that," I giggle. Cannot help it, really – we have been behaving like two fools in love lately anyway, and I, myself, am very fond of all these physical aspects of our relationship. One would have thought that it would be Erik, actually – Erik who had no-one to touch, to hold, nobody with whom he could spend some time. And yet it is me that cannot keep their hands to themselves.

My father would have been so ashamed. Especially nowadays, when those hands start to wander.

No matter.

"...and your deformity still... bothers you?"

Erik turns to his back so that he can look me in the eye.

"Of course it bothers me!" he cries out. "It bothers me even more, now. Back then, I knew I could not have you because of my face. And that was it. I was, more or less, at peace with the world; I knew the society would never welcome me, that I had to stay here and never reveal myself to anybody. I had to be a ghost. And I was at peace with all that. I only wanted _you – _and I knew I could not _want_ you. And now look at us; I _have _you. I am not quite sure as to how it happened, but you are here, with me. I should be content with that, should I not? Yet, I cannot. Because I have you with me, and I want to give you the world, and I cannot. I cannot do this, Christine, because of my deformity."

He takes a deep breath, trying to collect himself. When he speaks up again his voice is decidedly calmer.

"I have told you before, have I not? When we started courting, in your dressing room. After you stood up to Madame Giry. I want to take you out and go for a walk with you. I want the entire Paris to know you have chosen to be with me. I want them to know we are courting, and not feel _sorry _for you. I want to sit in the front row at your performances. I want to be able to go to a bloody bakery and buy you a cake without being attacked by people and nearly dying in the catacombs."

I feel a pang in my heart when he mentions that event. Never in my life have I been that scared. Never.

"I want you to be _proud_ to be with me. Not ashamed of having me as your future husband. And it shall never happen, because I am a bloody freak of nature. A gargoyle. A living corpse."

I was right – it was quite naive of me to believe everything was right. It was to be expected; I am, after all, decisively younger than Erik, and my face has no apparent flaws or blemishes.

Of course I cannot even imagine what he is going through on daily basis.

"Could you take off your wig?"

Erik raises an eyebrow at me. "Christine, have you even listened to a word I just said? I need both my mask _and _my wig."

"Why?"

"To have some dignity, for one."

"Even with me?"

"Especially with you. You should not be forced to look upon the face of Death, just because you happen to have unfortunately fallen in love with such a creature."

"Do not dare pity me, Erik!" I snap at him, clearly enunciating my words. Intentionally, too, so that he knows I am being dead serious. "Don't you _dare_ call me unfortunate for loving you."

"I just do not want to see the day you find yourself repulsed by me."

"Please, remove your wig," I say meekly. He takes it off without saying another word, but does not meet my eyes anymore.

I really, truly want to cry right now, but at the same time realise that, once again, I must be strong.

"I do adore your hair, you know," I say, stroking it with my fingers. "I love its colour and texture. It is so soft. And I love massaging your scalp as I play with it. It always feels so amazing when you do it for me."

"Christine, I am _bald_," he snarls.

"Stupid, rather. Or blind," I titter. "And, oh, how I love tugging on it while we kiss. Do you know it makes you growl?"

I can feel his body shaking with silent laughter. He is not going to break that easily, though.

"While the wig makes you look so handsome I can barely contain myself, when you remove it, it takes my breath away."

He turns to look at me again.

"You are mad, Christine."

"Am I?" Erik shakes his head, smiling at me, and I inquire as gently as I can, "Will you now take off your mask as well? It would please me very much."

"You know what I hate the most? Being physically unable to say 'no' to you."

"I, myself, love it."

A moment later, he exposes his face to me. I cannot help it but stare at him – not in that curious way anymore, trying to take in all details, but in a way that one would look at their lover. I have familiarised myself with each and every centimetre of his face, which suddenly gives me an idea.

An idea which is going to make him furious, probably.

"You look at me with such love and devotion," Erik says, "that I cannot help but believe that you do not find my face disgusting."

"Of course I do not," I nod. "If I asked you nicely, would you stand up and go to your room with me?"

"I do not think I like the tone of your voice very much."

"Please?"

Giving him my best attempt at making big, doe eyes at him, and biting my lip to make it even more effective, I wait for Erik to groan exasperatedly and roll off my lap.

Which he does. Because he is predictable and sickly in love with me.

The former may be an exaggeration, as he tends to take by surprise both me and the Opera workers, so perhaps, only the latter is actually true.

I stand up, take his hand in mine and lead him to his bedroom. I rarely visit this place, seeing as we spend the majority of our time together either in the living room or in his study, but I have been here a few times in the past. Enough to have noticed that he had replaced that mirror he had shattered.

I can feel the exact moment in which he realises what I am about to do.

"No, no, no, Christine. You will not do this."

"Oh, but I will. I think it is the high time you met the man I have fallen in love with."

"I know him. And I hate him. Which is why this is not happening."

"But it is!" I stomp my foot. "I want you to know what I really think about you."

"I seem to recall what you were thinking the first time you saw it."

Erik is being mean and I know it is his defence mechanism, but it still angers me.

I stop in front of the covered mirror and, despite his loud protests, I know Erik does not leave the room. Tentatively, he stands behind me.

And then I pull the curtain down.

He flinches as if I slapped him; he is much taller than me, so he can clearly see his face in the mirror, even though I should be obscuring his view.

"I do not like it," Erik mutters, shaking his head. "We are done here, Christine."

"No, wait." If he goes now, an opportunity like this one may never come again. Besides, I do not know what else to do to make him feel better.

Therefore, stay here, he will.

"Please, don't go. Just let me tell you."

"Tell me what?" He asks, closing his eyes tightly.

"How much I love you."

"Then speak," Erik whispers, still not looking at his reflection. It is fine, though – I can work with that.

"As I said," I clear my throat, "I adore your hair. Then, there are your eyes. I love their colour – people say blue eyes are pretty, but I think mine are quite cold, you know? And yours are so warm, so expressive, so soft. When you're composing, they truly shine with passion and energy. Your eyes can get a wee bit scary, especially when you get angry, but most of the time they are just... loving."

I turn to my side so that I can touch him while still gazing at the mirror.

"My favourite spot on your face is here," I inform him, stroking the place just under his cheekbone. The flesh here is darker and a little twisted; besides his jaw, his cheek is deformed the most.

"This is quite an... unusual choice, I should say." Erik's voice is still quiet, but he is now carefully observing everything I am doing.

"Perhaps. But at the first glance, it looks rough and, I don't know, not very welcoming? And yet, when you touch it, the skin is so soft here, so delicate. It's almost like... well, _you_."

"Pardon?"

"You are the infamous Phantom of the Opera, mon amour. When one digs a little deeper, though, you are just Erik. A sensitive, affectionate person."

He smiles, embarrassed, but I think quite pleased so far.

"Besides," I continue, "when I kiss you here, it makes you gasp."

I do so, then – I kiss him, applying some pressure to the very spot, and, indeed, a gasp leaves Erik.

"You are paying quite an attention to my responses, now, are you not?"

"Obviously! Unless I get too carried away."

"Every bloody time, then."

I laugh wantonly.

"Speaking of which! I think... I think I love your lips the most."

"My lips? How? The lower lip is bloated; it is downright nasty."

"I love your lips. And not just because of how much I adore kissing them, or feel them kissing _me_. I love it when you smile. I remember when I saw you without your mask – that second time when you fell asleep and I found you – I could not stop staring at your smile. Honestly, seeing you smile at me, fully, combined with that soft look in your eyes? You had me then, I think."

"Christine..."

"And it has not changed since, you know. When I come here and find you reading or playing, and you look up at me to greet me... And I see you smile at me? It is the best feeling in the whole world, trust me. I never feel more loved than in these moments."

"Look at us," Erik says quietly, wrapping his arms around me. "We are turning into saps."

"I know," I laugh. "We are being way too sweet to each other. Time to do something wild and improper."

"No."

"No?" I swat his arm. "You are no fun!"

"We both know what you mean when you say 'wild and improper'," he argues, kissing the tip of my nose.

"I end up with the _Phantom _of this damn Opera and he turns out to be a perfect gentleman. Just my luck. Let go of me, I am going to drink that wine now."

I try acting pissy and blatantly insulted as he follows me like a puppy back to the living room.

"Do allow this gentleman to fill your glass?"

"Whatever the gentleman wishes to do. It's not like my wishes are even considered in this house."

"Oh for the love of god," Erik mutters, pouring us wine. "All joking aside, Christine, thank you."

"For what?" I ask quietly, reaching for his hand again. He kisses the top of my palm and sits next to me on the sofa, handing me my glass.

"For being you. Because you, my love, are incredible."

"I just hope that one day you will see yourself the way I see you."

And who knows? Perhaps, there will come a day in which Erik learns to accept his fate.

I doubt I ever will. He does deserve the world. He is a brilliant composer, an amazing teacher, a talented architect, and god only knows what else. The one flaw, which is impossible to ignore, keeps him locked in here.

Down below.

Just because he does not look like everybody else.

For our society is all about aesthetics, and if a thing is different, if it does not fit certain standards, it is shunned.

The whole thing makes me sick to my stomach.

He cannot _know _this, though – he must think I do not mind the situation in which we find ourselves at all. It would lead to more self-doubts and more drama, which is what we certainly do not need in our life together.

"You've gone quiet, love," he notes, playing with my fingers absent-mindedly.

"I was just thinking."

"About anything in particular?"

"About how happy I am. So happy it is almost frightening."

"Trust me, I know this feeling," he murmurs.

"Oh, there is one thing that would make us feel better."

"Indeed? Do share!"

"You should just kiss me silly." I raise my eyebrow in challenge, putting my glass away.

"Will you behave?"

"Decidedly not."

He sighs deeply, his glass joining mine on the coffee table.

"One day, and soon, Christine, you are going to give me a stroke."

* * *

_And I would still die happy._

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**I do hope you liked it!  
**

**All my love,**

**Evy xx**


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